Breath
by purplehairedwonder
Summary: 6.12 tag. Dean watches Sam sleep the first night in Portland.


**Author's Note:** Just a little tag to 6.12 that I couldn't resist writing. This is my first foray into the _Supernatural_-verse, so any perverse bastardizations of canon are completely my fault. I've got a few other ideas swimming around now that the boys are back, and in an awesome way, so comments and criticisms are craved as I dig deeper into the SPN-verse!

**Disclaimer:** _Supernatural_ is not mine and I promise to put the toys back in the box when I'm done.

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Breath

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Dean was reveling in the fact that Sam was back; that he really had his brother back. That his brother was riding in the Impala in the passenger seat—in _his _seat—once more. That he was sharing beers with his little brother again, making bad jokes and watching the amused grimace play across Sam's face. That Sam was pulling out his puppy dog eyes with impunity. That Sam cared about stealing a missing girl's diary from her room. Dean just couldn't—and didn't want to—stop the giddy feeling that was bouncing around his chest the whole time they were in Portland.

When he'd heard his name hesitantly from behind in Bobby's living room, he'd known it was _his_ Sam before he'd even turned around. The unique inflection was something T1000 had never been able to duplicate. But knowing didn't take the amazement factor down any notches when he turned around to see his brother walking in from the kitchen. The slightly hunched posture was trademark Sammy. And when Sam had hugged him—had launched himself, really—Dean wondered how he'd ever thought the guy he'd spent the last six months with could have been his brother. His brother was one of a freaking kind.

Dean had put his arms around his brother, hesitant at first, almost afraid that his Sasquatch of a brother might break if he touched him wrong after Death's warning. Because he was a Winchester and things never went this right for them. But the warmth and love and _Sammyness_ in his brother's grip were overwhelming. It was a feeling of home after a long, long trip.

Seeing life in his brother's familiar hazel eyes, seeing untold emotions flit across his face, it was like the weight of the world had been lifted from Dean's shoulders. As Sam moved to hug Bobby, Dean marveled at the genuine warmth that practically radiated from the kid, absently contrasting it with the cold sterility that had been his robotic "brother." One was a crackling fire, the other a cold fireplace.

The last thing Sam remembered was falling into the Pit in Lawrence and Dean intended to keep it that way; the overwhelming feeling of _rightness_ that had settled over him at Sam's presence was too powerful a motivator to dare risk the Great Wall of Sam that Death had erected in his little brother's mind. It felt too much like being with Sam before Cold Oak, before his deal, and everything going to Hell… In his case, literally.

So, Dean knew Hell, knew what four months—forty years—had done to him. He'd do anything to keep Sam from knowing what that had been like; to keep Sam from remembering one-hundred and eighty years—assuming time in the Cage moved like time did in the rest of Hell—at the mercy of Satan himself and his bastard of an older brother. Whether it would kill him or not, Dean didn't want that kind of pain weighing on Sam, ever. He'd find a way to lay cement foundations in Sam's mind to keep the wall up if that's what it took.

The first night in Portland, Dean had stayed up on the laptop, feigning interest in the case long after even Sam's blessedly nerdy intrigue had been exhausted for the night. Sam was good—better than good—Dean could see, but there were still some lingering fatigue from his soul restoration, so he'd retired first. And Dean had continued "researching" until his brother's breathing had slowed and evened.

Closing the laptop softly, Dean settled himself in his chair and just watched Sam sleep. His brother's soulless counterpart hadn't slept in the year and a half he'd been topside, so Dean had gotten used to sleeping without the familiar sounds of his brother sleeping. And even after Death had restored Sam's soul and his brother had slept for a week and a half in the panic room, it hadn't been natural sleep. Sam had barely been breathing. But now… Now, Sam slept on peacefully. Breathing normally. Easily.

Dean hadn't known until he'd shared hotel rooms with his brother's doppelganger how much comfort he'd taken in the sounds of Sam sleeping in the next bed. He'd long-since keyed into Sam's sleeping patterns, learning the nightmare signs shortly after Jess had died, recognizing the difference between a vision and a nightmare, and even the different pitches of Sam's breathing depending on his mood before he fell asleep or if he was sick. Dean knew what hitches in his breath meant when he was injured and couldn't get comfortable. He'd lost much of the latter when Sam had gone to Stanford, but it came back quickly after they had hit the road from Palo Alto.

He had no idea how long he watched the steady rise and fall of Sam's chest from across the room, basking in the sound of his breathing—of Sam's very presence and, well, long-missed Samness—before deciding to retire himself. And when Dean splashed some water in his face, he found himself smiling in the mirror. It was a look that took him off-guard; when was the last time he'd really had reason to smile?

Years, he realized with a jolt. Yeah, there had been some great times with Lisa and Ben, but all that time had been underscored by Dean knowing his brother was in Hell. Everything was tempered, dulled by grief and helplessness. It was a thought that had hounded him every morning when he woke up and every night before he fell asleep. Dean leaned out the bathroom door to see the giant lump in Sam's bed. His lip twitched. He idly wondered what Death would like in his fruit basket before snorting at the thought.

This was right.

This was home.


End file.
